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Hooker.
    â€œThere was an account in the Journal today that recounted how he won the sobriquet of ‘Fighting Joe’ at the Battle of Williamsburg,” he said, his voice marked by the Beacon Hill cadence of the Boston aristocracy. “Basically, he attacked their whole army with just his one division and might have won the day, too, if General McClellan had supported him. Instead, he lost 20 percent of his division in the attack.”
    â€œI happen to believe that General McClellan is the greatest soldier of the age,” said Mr. Massey.
    â€œThen why don’t you tell us why the greatest soldier of the age chose to put his headquarters fourteen miles behind the battle line?” said the silver-haired blind man at the far end of the table. “McClellan had no idea what was even happening.”
    The man’s chin and mouth bore terrible marks of disfigurement, although a full beard covered much of it. In spite of his infirmities, he ate his meal without difficulty in precise, economical movements.
    â€œFrom what I have read about General Hooker,” continued Mr. Massey, “he seems to reserve all of his fighting ability for drunken brawls in this city’s worst dens of iniquity. You should be reading the Sentinel. ”
    â€œI wouldn’t wrap a fish in that newspaper,” said Captain Spellman.
    Mr. Massey was undeterred.
    â€œThe man was a hellion at West Point,” he went on in a superior tone, “and in the Mexican War he apparently spent most of his time in houses of ill-repute.”
    â€œLies,” said the silver-haired man, harshly. “He is the finest fighting general we have. Loyal to his men, personally brave, and he never asks them to go where he won’t lead. If McClellan had supported him at Williamsburg, we would be celebrating the end of the war in Richmond right now.”
    â€œAnd how would you know?” retorted Mr. Massey, with sarcasm.
    The blind man carefully folded his napkin and put it down in front of him.
    â€œBecause I was with him in the class of ‘37 at the Point.… And because I was with the army in Mexico when he led the attack of Hamer’s Brigade through the Mexican artillery fire at Monterey,” he said without pause, “and because I was with him when the Voltigeurs went over the barricades at Chapultepec and ended the war.”
    He stood up from the table, and replaced his chair in its proper place.
    â€œJoe Hooker was the only first lieutenant in the whole army to be brevettted three grades up to lieutenant colonel for his gallantry in the three major battles of that war,” he said, staring fiercely through his sightless eyes at Mr. Massey. “Since I am leaving on the morrow, let me say it now. You, sir, are an ass.”
    As he slowly made his way out of the dining room, Mrs. Warden’s servant girl passed him on her way in bearing the dessert, which consisted of an apple crisp, warm from the oven, and topped with clotted cream.
    As I stared down at my portion, I thought of what it might have been like to serve under a fighting general like Joe Hooker, a man who led from up front and knew how to fight a battle, instead of under a vainglorious fool like Edward Baker.
    Although I tried to do justice to my dessert, the craving for laudanum began to take possession of me before the rest of the dishes were even cleared. I realized it was the first full day since I had entered the hospital more than six months earlier that I had not consumed my regular dosings.
    The temperature of my skin seemed to be rising by the minute. Perspiration began to form at the roots of my hair. A few moments later, it was soaking the scalp and dripping down the back of my neck. Looking up from my plate, I realized that Mrs. Massey was trying to gain my attention.
    â€œYour color is quite alarming, Lieutenant. Have you been ill?” she asked, with genuine concern in her eyes.
    â€œYes. I just came from the